


Who Cares?

by GabiD57



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Early Days, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 07:29:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27347407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GabiD57/pseuds/GabiD57
Summary: Some people think that ESL means the immigrant has no feelings...
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin & Napoleon Solo
Kudos: 33





	Who Cares?

Why did some people raise their voices to him as though increased decibels could possibly make him comprehend them better? And if they were taller, bend over him while speaking? 

Why did they sneer at his clothes, his hair, his skinniness? 

Why did they assume that he was less than a full, feeling human being?

He felt totally at sea after this latest rebuff, and determined never to enter this little deli again. He was astounded that, after having worked for the Command in London, he was having to endure once again being treated as a fourth class citizen. Well, no, that was obviously not right. He was clearly no citizen. 

He was committed to UNCLE heart and soul, but no one here in New York had bothered to give him a chance. His desk in the agents' bullpen had been vandalized to the extent of being made nearly unusable, and his two personal items had disappeared. The moment he opened his mouth he was doomed...no one seemed willing to look past his accent or a few dropped articles of speech.

He was undoubtedly thrilled with the rather substandard flat with which he had been provided since he was its sole occupant, but despite his attempts to overcome his own reticence, he had been ostracized by his fellow agents and found himself spending night after lonely night in the flat, alone.

He'd been sent out on a few milk-run missions, but despite his success at Survival School in the face of Cutter's animosity and determination to break him, as well as his outstanding track record in London, he seemed unable to break into the camaraderie of Section Ii.

He was most severely let alone.

Some of the support personnel, the ones with attractive figures, had seemed to be a little receptive at first, but that was clearly long over. Alexander Waverly, who normally welcomed each of his new enforcement agents personally, hadn't requested his presence at all, and his little missions were assigned to him by the CEA, a man who gave him the barest of information and not a syllable more.

He sighed deeply, frustration and loneliness jockeying for position in his tight chest. He had never been an extrovert, but had never felt so actively despised before. If people didn't stop talking in his presence, they made thinly veiled threats and insults as he passed by.

He wanted only to do a good job for the Command. Was there really much point to staying in New York? It had been a month so far, and he was committed to at least five more months. How on earth would he ever make it through?

* * *

When he had first been strong-armed into coming to the West as a youth, he had been frankly astonished by the fate of immigrants. Those who had been doctors and professors in their homelands were relegated to menial work because their lack of command of English was seen as a sign of stupidity. Oh, how he had hated this mistreatment of his fellow foreigners! He strove particularly hard to downplay and overcome his natural accent, but it seemed that in the country of immigrants he was fated to suffer similarly. 

And yet his upbringing forbade him from openly standing up for himself and refuting the fourth class role clearly assigned to him. He was too uncomfortable and even afraid to try to confront his tormentors openly. He would simply blank all emotion from his face, leaving his antagonizers unsure as to his true feelings. This approach had served him well in the past, and he saw no reason why it should not continue to serve him.

Returning from the men's room, he heard laughter and lighthearted conversation in the bullpen. He was rather loathe to interpose, but his report was due to the CEA shortly and he doubted very much that a late report would endear him to the man. As he reached the door, he squared his shoulders, drew a deep breath, and entered. Immediately all talk ceased. He made his way to his wreck of a desk, picking the typewriter up off the floor where it had sat waiting for his return. The temperature felt as though it had suddenly dropped 20 degrees, and he felt the acute discomfort of many unwelcoming and condemning eyes on him.

Looking down at his typewriter, he failed to see the puzzled glances the newcomer threw around the room. When no one said a word, a hand was thrust practically under the pariah's nose and he heard the words, "Welcome to New York! Mr. Waverly and I just got back from a long tour of some member countries. I'm Napoleon Solo."


End file.
